Is Twitter progress?
Well, yes it is. For now. But already, people in the know – most of whom Twitter, or have Twittered – are already referring to Twitter as a “time suck.” That means that Twitter, before long, will assumed its place alongside other digital, Web-based activities that once were smart but now are known time sucks, which suck away a human being’s time without leaving the human being anything to show for it.
To better understand the gravity of such a result, let us recall what it is like to paint wood trim, or moulding. If you have never painted wood trim – around doors and windows in an ordinary bedroom for example – then you have no idea how slow and painful the passage of time can be. Painting moulding is as close to infinity as a human being can approach. That is because moulding possesses all the physical characteristics of infinity. A battleship, seemingly vast, can nevertheless be painted in less time than it takes to paint the moulding in our sample ordinary bedroom.
Now imagine you have painted the moulding with a dry brush. No paint, just bare wood behind you, stretching away to Andromeda. That is the kind of time suck that Twitter is. Ninety-five percent of the Web universe is a bare-wood time suck. Hard to believe, but I can sense the day when we will ask, “What’s on the Web?” Answer: “Nothing but old movies.”
Can you say the word, “bubble?” No, of course, the Web does not constitute a giant unified bubble. There are pockets of content that consumers can learn from and take forward with them, and there is a demographic, constituting maybe 15 percent of Web users, who LIKE time sucks. But it doesn’t take totality for a bursting bubble to shake things up. A relatively small bubble of sub-prime lending just about wrecked the mortgage industry and undermined other financial structures like gophers tunneling away all but a crust of dirt beneath the Taj Mahal.
The Web is thousands of communities attracted to content of interest only to those within those communities. The Web, most of all, is a marvel in making content available to small audiences who the traditional mass media could never serve. All those small audiences taken together, though, add up to significant percentages enjoying the novelty the Web provides them. But in the media world, novelty is totally finite. More finite in some places than others. If you are painting moulding, you may feel novelty for as long as five minutes. Novelty for “Seinfeld” lasted longer, around seven years, and it is still holding for “American Idol,” though it needed re-tooling this season.
There must be finiteness to small communities of people enjoying their hour of accessibility to unusual, even bizarre, pockets of content on the Web. One by one, as those communities burn out, there will be a declining number of communities attracted by novelty, and the number of novel subjects to attract them. For examples, watch television in the middle of the night, where resides content that once was new.
As this novelty fuel is spent, and the last time sucks have consumed themselves, one day a good part of the Web will collapse. Google will teeter then, not Twitter, as the search for novelty crashes. I would guess we could start looking for cracks around 2011.
Showing posts with label Geezerville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Geezerville. Show all posts
March 25, 2009
February 28, 2009
The theater of the DMV
Two things were on my mind as I drove to the DMV: my eyes and my smile. In California, your driver's license renews twice automatically for five-year terms, then you have to go into the office for renewal, so they can check your vision and take a new photo.
They made a big deal about vision on the renewal form that came in the mail. It was against the law, they said, to withhold any changes in vision since your last check. I had none of the changes (macular degeneration, etc.) listed, but I did have 15 more years on the eyes and the moment when they asked me to read the eye chart weighed heavy on my mind.
And I have trouble smiling for the camera. Look at my photo there, just to the right. Karen got me to smile that much by saying, "Imagine you just found out you won the Pulitzer Prize." So I practiced, looking in the rear-view mirror. Totally goofy. I just don't know how to do it. How does Brad Pitt flash the pearlies with such relaxed effect? How does Harrison Ford bring up that lazy grin? Does he even think about it? Tell me: looking at the photo, can you tell that I am trying to grin, or survive the pain of a colorectal exam?
If you are a San Diegan, my closest DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) was in El Cajon. You understand how lucky I was when a parking space opened up right by the doors. Inside was like stepping into a crowded terminal, supplicants clutching papers like the refugees in "Casablanca," clustered at a boarding gate to the highways of California. Maybe triple the crowd for an Oprah taping, all nondescript Does, Janes and Johns, no one standing out. There WAS one person, in flipflops, shorts, a blue wifebeater tshirt and a gut the size of the first atomic bomb.
The operation was take-a-number. I had tried last week to call for a reservation, but the first available was March 12. My number was G130. Facing the rows of seats were monitors, suspended from the ceiling, on which numbers appeared as they were announced by a mechanical woman's voice (thoughtfully softened by a bit of echo): "Now serving A084, at Window 14." And a lucky participant would scuttle forward. The G series of numbers stood at G066. Not so bad, if there hadn't also been A, B, C, D, E, F, H and J series showing on the screens.
I stood awhile, then sat down. I was nervous about my number. I felt to make sure it was in my jacket pocket, then with my other hand caught the slip in a pinch of fabric as I withdrew the feeling hand. When "G130" was called, I didn't want to be scuttling forward as my passport to freedom was fluttering to the floor back at my seat. There were several children, and they all seemed to be a year, or a year and a half, old. They studied each other like miniature social scientists. They were well-behaved and did not cry. I wondered if it was because the crowd and its expectant tension gave them some reason to believe that SpongeBob Squarepants was about to suddenly appear.
An hour had not quite passed, and the woman's voice announced "G98." I felt a thrill rush through my body. My G130 was assuming value. The reward, for each of us, was to be called. When I was called, would I be ready? I practiced my smile. Then just on impulse, I practiced a half-smile, first on the left side, then the right. And there it was! On the left side, it felt like a smile. On the right side, it felt like a grimace. It was the right side all along, that had been the trouble! I practiced again and again, just the left side. It felt good. Leave it to the DMV, to bring out a lifelong truth about a person.
At "G115" I was so jumpy that I stood up. Back at G079, I had reckoned my window would be No. 11. I found a standing place close to it. I packaged my checkbook, renewal form, and old license in one jacket pocket and located my number again in the opposite pocket. To my left, seated at the end of a row, was an older woman in dark glasses clutching her number: G154. She seemed abnormally calm.
G128. G129. My God, they were about to raise the curtain and I would have to speak my lines. "Now serving G130, at Window 9." It was ME. I scuttled forward into the custody of a nice man whose tag identified him as Robert. If his name had been Rick, I think I would have laughed out loud. "How are you?" he said. I said, "I'm so excited I hope I don't fall over." He smiled – a nice, easy smile – and said, "Well, let's have it," and I handed over the G130. "When I got here," I said, "it was G066."
"Just sign the form," Robert smiled, and I did, and wrote him a check for $28. "Now look at the chart." It was above and behind him. The letters stood out. I read them easily. "Go get your picture taken, and you're outta here." I reached over the counter and shook his hand. "Thanks for waiting," I said. "Thank YOU for waiting," he said. There was one in front of me in the photo line. It took less than a minute. I flashed the old half-smile and it was over. Into the sunny day I sauntered, good for another 200,000 miles. They will mail the new license to me. I can't wait to see the picture.
They made a big deal about vision on the renewal form that came in the mail. It was against the law, they said, to withhold any changes in vision since your last check. I had none of the changes (macular degeneration, etc.) listed, but I did have 15 more years on the eyes and the moment when they asked me to read the eye chart weighed heavy on my mind.
And I have trouble smiling for the camera. Look at my photo there, just to the right. Karen got me to smile that much by saying, "Imagine you just found out you won the Pulitzer Prize." So I practiced, looking in the rear-view mirror. Totally goofy. I just don't know how to do it. How does Brad Pitt flash the pearlies with such relaxed effect? How does Harrison Ford bring up that lazy grin? Does he even think about it? Tell me: looking at the photo, can you tell that I am trying to grin, or survive the pain of a colorectal exam?
If you are a San Diegan, my closest DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) was in El Cajon. You understand how lucky I was when a parking space opened up right by the doors. Inside was like stepping into a crowded terminal, supplicants clutching papers like the refugees in "Casablanca," clustered at a boarding gate to the highways of California. Maybe triple the crowd for an Oprah taping, all nondescript Does, Janes and Johns, no one standing out. There WAS one person, in flipflops, shorts, a blue wifebeater tshirt and a gut the size of the first atomic bomb.
The operation was take-a-number. I had tried last week to call for a reservation, but the first available was March 12. My number was G130. Facing the rows of seats were monitors, suspended from the ceiling, on which numbers appeared as they were announced by a mechanical woman's voice (thoughtfully softened by a bit of echo): "Now serving A084, at Window 14." And a lucky participant would scuttle forward. The G series of numbers stood at G066. Not so bad, if there hadn't also been A, B, C, D, E, F, H and J series showing on the screens.
I stood awhile, then sat down. I was nervous about my number. I felt to make sure it was in my jacket pocket, then with my other hand caught the slip in a pinch of fabric as I withdrew the feeling hand. When "G130" was called, I didn't want to be scuttling forward as my passport to freedom was fluttering to the floor back at my seat. There were several children, and they all seemed to be a year, or a year and a half, old. They studied each other like miniature social scientists. They were well-behaved and did not cry. I wondered if it was because the crowd and its expectant tension gave them some reason to believe that SpongeBob Squarepants was about to suddenly appear.
An hour had not quite passed, and the woman's voice announced "G98." I felt a thrill rush through my body. My G130 was assuming value. The reward, for each of us, was to be called. When I was called, would I be ready? I practiced my smile. Then just on impulse, I practiced a half-smile, first on the left side, then the right. And there it was! On the left side, it felt like a smile. On the right side, it felt like a grimace. It was the right side all along, that had been the trouble! I practiced again and again, just the left side. It felt good. Leave it to the DMV, to bring out a lifelong truth about a person.
At "G115" I was so jumpy that I stood up. Back at G079, I had reckoned my window would be No. 11. I found a standing place close to it. I packaged my checkbook, renewal form, and old license in one jacket pocket and located my number again in the opposite pocket. To my left, seated at the end of a row, was an older woman in dark glasses clutching her number: G154. She seemed abnormally calm.
G128. G129. My God, they were about to raise the curtain and I would have to speak my lines. "Now serving G130, at Window 9." It was ME. I scuttled forward into the custody of a nice man whose tag identified him as Robert. If his name had been Rick, I think I would have laughed out loud. "How are you?" he said. I said, "I'm so excited I hope I don't fall over." He smiled – a nice, easy smile – and said, "Well, let's have it," and I handed over the G130. "When I got here," I said, "it was G066."
"Just sign the form," Robert smiled, and I did, and wrote him a check for $28. "Now look at the chart." It was above and behind him. The letters stood out. I read them easily. "Go get your picture taken, and you're outta here." I reached over the counter and shook his hand. "Thanks for waiting," I said. "Thank YOU for waiting," he said. There was one in front of me in the photo line. It took less than a minute. I flashed the old half-smile and it was over. Into the sunny day I sauntered, good for another 200,000 miles. They will mail the new license to me. I can't wait to see the picture.
January 08, 2009
Ring, ring! Tinnitus calling
In the summer of 1972, as I was working in downtown San Diego, I suddenly sneezed sharply. After the sneeze, I had a weird physical sensation, like a bucket of water had been dropped over my head but the water stayed in the bucket, around my head.
That feeling went away after a couple of minutes, thank God. I did not have to spend the next 40 years adjusting to life with a full bucket of water over my head. But when the bucket went away, it left something behind. There was a ringing in my left ear. As I sit here writing this, the ringing sounds the same as it did in the summer of 1972. Same volume, same tone, a high pitch like you could hear on the radio when you turned the dial a certain way, when radios had dials.
I don't know if I am hearing this sound, or transmitting it. Neither does medical science, which calls the sound "tinnitus," from the Latin tinnere, to ring. Webster's online defines it as "a sensation of noise (as a ringing or roaring) that is caused by a bodily condition (as a disturbance of the auditory nerve or wax in the ear) and typically is of the subjective form which can only be heard by the one affected." I am awfully happy, in terms of having found women who would marry me, that I am afflicted by the subjective form, and not the objective, which other people, horror of horrors, can hear. Can you imagine that, and snoring, too?
The Mayo Clinic offers more information than I ever thought or hoped I would find on the subject and none of it relates to my circumstance, which is sneeze-induced tinnitus. I had a ruptured eardrum, and was present at the birth of rock and roll, and was in the artillery, and had my share of ear wax, but this was all before 1972. My own suspicion is that the sneeze jiggled my stirrup off the anvil (you remember, the ear bones we learned, for some reason, in school) just enough to cause a high-pitched rattle, like a loose muffler on a car going near the speed of light. Are you listening, Einstein?
Does it bother me? I don't know. It has been almost 36 years since the sneeze, and I have forgotten what silence, auditory solitude, the breathing of angels, must sound like. I sleep fine, I use the left ear to listen to people on the telephone, I can hear a hotdog hit the grill from half a mile, so I guess I have gotten used to living with it. It comes up because I wrote a column about it years ago, and a reader, Pam, a fellow sufferer, remembered it and sent me an email wondering what I knew now. I am flattered she asked me, instead of the Mayo Clinic, but I can't give her much more information than they can.
She said hers had gotten worse, and she asked about my concentration for writing or reading. I have no problems there. My problem with reading concentration is the racket my imagination makes as I try to focus on sentences. Pam said she now has new "sounds" in her ears, two or more variations on the original high-pitched sound. She said she had trouble hearing conversations, on TV and in person. Pam, please understand the spirit in which I say this, but regarding TV, you aren't missing much.
"I was hoping to be selected for a tinnitus research project, but was denied for the current study," she said. "I did not meet their requirements since my 'ringing' changes in volume."
So tinnitus elitism rears its ugly head. Pam said she had joined a tinnitus support group. Anyone out there with real experience, for her and the group?
That feeling went away after a couple of minutes, thank God. I did not have to spend the next 40 years adjusting to life with a full bucket of water over my head. But when the bucket went away, it left something behind. There was a ringing in my left ear. As I sit here writing this, the ringing sounds the same as it did in the summer of 1972. Same volume, same tone, a high pitch like you could hear on the radio when you turned the dial a certain way, when radios had dials.
I don't know if I am hearing this sound, or transmitting it. Neither does medical science, which calls the sound "tinnitus," from the Latin tinnere, to ring. Webster's online defines it as "a sensation of noise (as a ringing or roaring) that is caused by a bodily condition (as a disturbance of the auditory nerve or wax in the ear) and typically is of the subjective form which can only be heard by the one affected." I am awfully happy, in terms of having found women who would marry me, that I am afflicted by the subjective form, and not the objective, which other people, horror of horrors, can hear. Can you imagine that, and snoring, too?
The Mayo Clinic offers more information than I ever thought or hoped I would find on the subject and none of it relates to my circumstance, which is sneeze-induced tinnitus. I had a ruptured eardrum, and was present at the birth of rock and roll, and was in the artillery, and had my share of ear wax, but this was all before 1972. My own suspicion is that the sneeze jiggled my stirrup off the anvil (you remember, the ear bones we learned, for some reason, in school) just enough to cause a high-pitched rattle, like a loose muffler on a car going near the speed of light. Are you listening, Einstein?
Does it bother me? I don't know. It has been almost 36 years since the sneeze, and I have forgotten what silence, auditory solitude, the breathing of angels, must sound like. I sleep fine, I use the left ear to listen to people on the telephone, I can hear a hotdog hit the grill from half a mile, so I guess I have gotten used to living with it. It comes up because I wrote a column about it years ago, and a reader, Pam, a fellow sufferer, remembered it and sent me an email wondering what I knew now. I am flattered she asked me, instead of the Mayo Clinic, but I can't give her much more information than they can.
She said hers had gotten worse, and she asked about my concentration for writing or reading. I have no problems there. My problem with reading concentration is the racket my imagination makes as I try to focus on sentences. Pam said she now has new "sounds" in her ears, two or more variations on the original high-pitched sound. She said she had trouble hearing conversations, on TV and in person. Pam, please understand the spirit in which I say this, but regarding TV, you aren't missing much.
"I was hoping to be selected for a tinnitus research project, but was denied for the current study," she said. "I did not meet their requirements since my 'ringing' changes in volume."
So tinnitus elitism rears its ugly head. Pam said she had joined a tinnitus support group. Anyone out there with real experience, for her and the group?
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